‘WHAT’S on your desk?” asks the subject of an e-mail that has just popped into my in-box unannounced.
Like an unexpected relative appearing on the doormat or a beetroot-purple bruise on your leg when you don’t remember walking into something, this is both curious and not entirely unwelcome.
I survey the extent of my domain – the single table where I spend more hours than anywhere else – to see if it reflects my personality.
There are lots of books, among them Extraordinary Uses for Ordinary Things, a dictionary and a couple of guides to grammar.
Next to a bottle of lavender soap I was sent by a public relations firm three months ago and have been meaning to take home ever since, there is a mug with its handle missing and a tin of sweets that are supposed to have a calming effect on the mind.
In fact, they are such an extraordinary mixture of peppermint and basil that they shock you into forgetting whatever it is you were worrying about.
There is a stack of newspapers, lots of bright yellow sheets we use for booking photographers and several packets of Post-It notes.
According to my desk, I must surely have a split personality – both precise and untidy at the same time, the sort who keeps organised notes but forgets to wash her coffee mug.
Nearby, another desk suggests it belongs to someone with the mind of an intrepid explorer, daily entering a jungle of paper and old polystyrene cups and rafting down a Zambezi of tea stains in pursuit of a mythical press release.
Another colleague’s hard drive is topped with a miniature National Portrait Gallery, with photographs of mum, dad, cousin Harris, Auntie Gunnilda and the next-door neighbour.
“Am I unsentimental for not having a single picture on my own desk?” I wonder, or perhaps I just don’t have a nice photo of my family handy. Back to the email, there is a check list of commonly-found office items: a Starbucks latte/ frappuccino/cappuccino/frothachocachino (no, just a mug I should have washed two days ago), a computer-ion eating cactus plant (no, we eat all the ions ourselves here), numerous biros with horribly chewed lids (no – they are like buses on my desk, I can never find one and, as soon as I give up and use a pencil, five roll out from under my keyboard), some form of small, furry, “amusing” toy (yes, a yellow lion that I was given as a present and never made it home), various pieces of random paper, one of which has a really important number on it (check, check and check again), the stapler that you stole from Penelope two desks down (no, I actually have my own stapler lost somewhere in the bottom of one of my drawers – it’s that organised disorganised streak coming out again).
Then comes the verdict: “If you’ve answered yes to more than one of the above, you are in need of serious help.”
Well, no surprise there.
I am often in need of serious help, like the time I shot down a water slide on my stomach and the person behind didn’t wait the required 10 seconds before following.
Or the time the lens fell out of my glasses on the way to the theatre and I had to watch Phantom of the Opera with one hand over my right eye.
Or the time I was styling a fashion shoot and all the clothes I had chosen were stolen from the shop the night before the model was due to wear them.
However, my desk was one of the few areas I was fairly confident I wasn’t in need of serious help.
I look around frantically for something that will resolve this new problem and my glance falls on the tin of Peace of Mind mints.
What was it I was worrying about again?
